Plucked!
by Jake Crepeau
Summary: The story of Bogg's first days at VHQ. Completely re-written for the second time; now an evolving story.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story just won't stay complete! As time goes on, more and more ideas occur to me, some of them inspired by other stories I have written since posting this one, so I have converted it to an "evolving" story. Someday it may be complete, but who knows?

**A/N 2: **Changes made here include merging the former first and second chapters into one, with a few changes made in scenes here and there.

**Disclaimer: **The usual; you guys know the drill by now.

Plucked!  
by  
Jake Crepeau

_"We're the people that are plucked out of time and trained to travel through the ages..." _---Phineas Bogg

Chapter 1  
Strange New World

_**Atlantic Ocean, off the Florida coast; October 18, 1684**_

They would have had plenty of warning, had it been the usual sort of storm. The first indication was the rough seas, nothing the men hadn't encountered before. Then the first clouds were spotted on the horizon, a vague greenish tint to the great billowing cumulus clouds whose anvils disappeared in the heights of the heavens, and the ship began to make for the nearest port. But they were too far out, and the hurricane was moving too quickly.

The seas were impossibly high; it took three men to keep the bow aimed into them. Powerful waves, the likes of which had been known to sweep men overboard, washed over the deck; everyone who could possibly be spared had long since been sent below.

Quartermaster (1) Phineas Bogg was exhausted by the time his relief touched his shoulder, speech having been rendered impractical by the roaring of the winds and waves. Gratefully, he turned to head below; then, barely audible in the raging storm, he heard a flapping, whipping sound. Whirling, he immediately turned his gaze to the reefed storm sails. Some of the reefing of the mains'l had come undone, and the loose canvas was flapping dangerously, catching too much wind, threatening the brigantine's already precarious control; he began roaring orders as he scrambled up the rigging, several others swarming up behind him. The footrope swayed beneath them as they worked, and the whipping ties raised painful welts on their arms before they could get them secured once more. At length, with much cursing, the job was done, and they made their careful way back to the deck. _Hold on,_ Phineas told his stomach firmly as the pitching of the ship, magnified several times at this height, threatened his equilibrium. _Wait 'til I make it below; then you can be sick._

But the storm had other ideas. The wind picked up even further and set the rigging to vibrating with such force that it weakened his hold; he slowed his descent, wrapping each limb in the lines with each step to keep himself from falling.

It didn't help. A vicious blast tore his free arm loose, and he let out a cry of pain as he felt the other arm snap. In that same instant, the steersmen lost their battle with the helm, and suddenly the waves were coming athwart, rolling the ship so violently that it was in danger of capsizing. The spar end actually dipped beneath the water; Phineas managed to grab a breath just before the sea washed over him. The mad current battered at him, aggravating the pain in his broken arm, and he gritted his teeth against the cry that rose to his lips, until he was sure his jaw would break as well. Black spots began to swim across his vision, and, just when he was certain he could hold his breath no longer, there was a flash of light, and then nothing.

_**Voyager Headquarters, Recruit Reception**_

He came to slowly, noting first the near-total silence. There was a deep, barely audible hum, and perhaps a faint susurration of air, but nothing more. He felt no breeze. He was lying on a hard, smooth surface, and it wasn't moving.

Why was he expecting motion, anyway? He knit his brows, puzzled. He was wet, but he couldn't remember…Wait. Hadn't it been raining? What had he been doing out in it?

He tried to sit up and bit back a cry of pain as his injured arm reminded him of its condition. His concern stepped up a notch as he realized he couldn't remember how he'd injured it. Deciding that remaining supine was his best bet for the moment, he slowly looked around.

Was it the room that was blue, or the strange light that illuminated it? He couldn't tell. Some of the panels in the ceiling glowed with a steady light that came from no candle or lamp he had ever seen. What manner of witchcraft was this? Rolling carefully to his left side, he pushed himself into a sitting position, then held his injured right arm cradled in his left, against his chest. The room wasn't very large, and there wasn't a stick of furniture in it; there were no windows, and only one door promised exit. He was completely alone, and yet he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. "Show yourself!" he snapped, his voice reverberating oddly in the empty room.

Obligingly, the door opened, and a young man entered, apparently not much older than he. "Hello," he said. "I'm Voyager Tim Shelby." He held out his right hand briefly, then withdrew it and substituted his left.

Bogg took it. "Phineas Bogg." _Voyager?_ he wondered, then decided the more urgent question was, "Where am I?"

"Voyager Headquarters," came the singularly uninformative reply.

There was that word again. He knew what it meant, but had the feeling that, here, it had a very specific meaning. "Voyager?" he asked.

"In due time, Mr. Bogg. First, we need to get that arm seen to. Come with me, please."

He balked. "No butcher of a barber is touching me!" he snapped.

"We have properly trained physicians and surgeons here," Shelby told him. "Not a butcher among them, I assure you."

"Your word on that?"

"Voyager's honor—and trust me, that's the highest oath we have, short of swearing to the Almighty Himself."

He nodded; though still suspicious, he went with this _Voyager _person and was led through a corridor that might have been found in the home of a plantation owner. Instead of glowing panels in the ceiling, however, this area was lit by wall-mounted lamps, lending a little more credence to the comparison, although he could see no oil reservoirs, and no chimneys; just translucent globes that gave off the same steady glow as the witch-lights in the room he had just left—though perhaps "globes" was a bit of a misnomer, as they more closely resembled mounds of clotted cream. The hallway was lined with doors on both sides, their spacing suggesting rooms no larger than the one in which he had awakened.

Then a door slammed somewhere, followed by the sound of running feet from a side corridor a few feet ahead of them, followed seconds later by three men and a woman dressed in white, the woman and one of the men steering a wheeled cot.

A split second after the group rounded the corner, the air was rent by an agonized scream from behind the door directly opposite Bogg and Shelby. "Stay here!" Shelby barked as he rushed forward to open that door.

A man lay on the floor writhing in pain, blood spurting dangerously from the shattered remnants of his legs. Bogg took a half-step forward, then stopped and retreated. He could do nothing to help with his arm in its current condition; besides, the white-clad team certainly seemed to know what they were doing.

It was over in a matter of minutes; the man was lifted to the cot, and they rushed him back the way they had come.

Phineas discovered that his abortive move to help had not gone unnoticed when Shelby gave him a tight grin. "Bet you've seen that sort of thing before, haven't you?"

"Exploding shot will do that," Phineas replied, then remarked, "Your people seem to have raised the use of the tourniquet to a fine art."

"So you know the device?"

"Saw a barber use one. He said it was something fairly new he'd learned about somewhere. Were those people some of your physicians?"

"More like helpers. They do the simple stuff before bringing the patient to the doctors."

"You call that simple?"

"Compared to what the surgeon will do next, absolutely. Now come on; let's get that arm of yours seen to."

Phineas snorted ruefully as they continued down the hallway; after what he had just seen, his own injury no longer seemed quite so important.

Eventually they came to another room, this one richly panelled. Wooden cabinets held instruments and vials; in the center of the room was another wheeled cot. There was also a low stool that had little wheels on it, and a couple of chairs stood against one wall.

Shelby helped him out of his dripping clothes, informing him that they'd be cleaned and returned.

"Could I trouble you to take those boots to a cobbler for me?" the newcomer asked uncertainly. "They could use new soles."

"Certainly," Shelby agreed. "It'll all be taken care of." He reached into a drawer in one of the cabinets and withdrew a sheet, which he handed to Phineas; gratefully, he covered himself with it. Shelby then slipped out the door as another man came in, this one middle-aged, with glasses and a receding hairline. His face was only beginning to show lines, and those lines revealed a kindly man who laughed a lot. Phineas liked him on sight.

"Mr. Bogg, I'm Dr. Fiore," the man introduced himself. "How are you feeling?—Aside from the arm," he added as the patient shot him a _look. _

For the first time since awakening, he began to notice other aches and pains that had previously been overshadowed by the pain of his arm. "Like I've been keel-hauled," he groaned.

The doctor began feeling his head gently, drawing back immediately when a light touch on a small lump he found elicited a sharp hiss. "Well, you certainly have hit your head. Can you remember what happened?

"No," he replied. "My memory is so befuddled, 'tis a wonder I even know who I am."

Fiore nodded as if such a thing were only to be expected, which eased Bogg's worry somewhat. The physician reached for a small stylus-like instrument in the breast pocket of his white coat, then seemed to think better of it. He gazed closely at Bogg's eyes for a moment; apparently satisfied, he filled a glass with water, then withdrew a vial from a cabinet and added two drops from it to the water. "If you'll lie down, I'll have a look at that arm," he said

"Do I get something to drink before you set it?"

"Yes, but not what you're expecting; I've got better painkillers than that," Fiore told him as he handed the glass to him. "It's what you would call a sleeping potion."

Sniffing it, he raised an eyebrow. He knew this potion; two drops of it, pure, would knock a man out for nearly twenty-four hours. Two drops in water...He decided this was evidence that he could trust this doctor and chugged the contents of the glass. Moments later, he felt himself drifting toward sleep. While he was in that twilight stage between waking and sleeping, he felt a vague sting on the back of his left hand; shortly afterward, he slipped into blackness once more.

* * * * *

Finding the door to Dr. Fiore's office open, Shelby rapped on the frame and walked in.

Fiore grinned at the younger man. "So they've made you the guide to our ex-sailor, eh, Tim?"

"Him and the Marine." He shook his head. "What did I do to deserve a jarhead _and_ a squid in one go? Who did I torque off, Doc?"

"It can't be all _that_ bad."

"Oh, yeah? When one of 'em is so backward he thinks he's fallen into the hands of a coven, and the other one has probably forgotten more about quantum physics than the director of TE (2) ever knew? Tell me another one."

"You'll manage; you always do."

Shelby snorted and let it drop. "So how are they?"

"Your 'squid' is resting. The arm was a clean break; I was able to set it without surgery. Aside from that, he's just battered and bruised. And, of course, his memory is scrambled. We got his immunizations out of the way after he was sedated, and completed his locator scan along with all the other scans and tests. All in all, he's in remarkably good health, considering the living conditions of a sailor from that time zone. He doesn't even have any traces of scurvy."

"What about the other one?"

"Last I heard, they were just taking him to the OR. You'll have to talk to Dr. Brooks when he's done; he's got that case."

* * * * *

Phineas awakened slowly again, this time with the heavy feeling of having been drugged. Looking down at himself, he discovered that his right arm was in a sling and encased in something that felt like plaster. Now how were they going to take that off when it was time, he wondered. Well, he'd find out when he saw the doctor again. He decided, as he settled himself more comfortably, that he _liked_ having trained doctors and surgeons, instead of....

_Instead of what?_ he wondered in consternation as he realized he still hadn't recovered his memory.

* * * * *

(1) A quartermaster on a ship is a navigator. Among Caribbean pirates, the quartermaster and the captain were elected by the crew. The captain was in command in battle situations; at all other times, the quartermaster was in charge.

(2) Temporal Engineering.


	2. The Jarhead and the Squid

**A/N: **There are a few four-letter words in this chapter, and a little bit of potty humor near the end. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! ;D

Chapter 2

The Jarhead and the Squid

When next he woke, there was only a dim, steady light coming from somewhere he could not see. Not much brighter than a candle, it didn't flicker the way a candle flame would. Sitting up, he saw a tiny glowing globe that seemed to be attached to the wall about twelve inches from the floor.

Slowly, he got out of bed, feeling no dizziness, though he was still a little unsteady on his feet; he supposed that he just hadn't gotten his land legs back yet.

Land legs? Was he a sailor?

_Violent wind, high seas, ship broaching...._ the briefest of flashbacks, gone almost before he was aware of it.

With a quick shake of his head to clear it (and a soft grunt as the lump announced itself), he began looking around the room for a chamber-pot. Finding none, he opened one of the two doors.

Ah, there it was, in a small tiled room, the largest pot he'd ever seen. Well, at least a man didn't have to squat on his hunkers to use the thing. Closing the lid when he was done, he examined the small booth next to it.

It was just big enough to stand in. Screwed into the tiled floor was a metal plate with large holes in it. High on the wall was a spout of some kind; below it were two handles. He turned one and let out a yelp when rain suddenly came out of nowhere, drenching him in warm water. He jumped out of the booth, but could not completely escape the water; it was striking the floor and splashing into the tiny room beyond. Spotting a door of some translucent material, he shut it to contain the spattering.

The second door opened as he let himself out and back into the bedroom; a man he hadn't seen before peered in. "Are you all right? I thought I heard you cry out."

Shaken, Phineas pointed a trembling finger at the other door. ""Tis raining in there!" he cried. "How does it rain _indoors? _'Tis witchcraft!"

The man grinned. "No, not witchcraft. Just indoor plumbing. Ever hear of the ancient Romans? They had it, even before the time of Christ." He went into the tiny room and opened the door to the booth. Pushing up a sleeve, he reached into the rain and turned the handle once more, and the downpour stopped.

Well, if this strange phenomenon had been around that long ago, it must be all right, but why hadn't he ever seen it before? "What's it for?" he asked.

"For washing yourself. Takes up less room than a bathtub, and washing this way is faster than a bath. Stand under the water, soap up, rinse off, and you're done. Five minutes, maybe ten if you wash your hair, too." Spotting the closed lid on the toilet, he flashed a quick grin. "Some things don't change much, do they?" he said, realizing that the newcomer had recognized the humble chamber pot in the shape of the bowl. "This one has a trick, though." He opened the lid. "Press that lever. Go ahead," he added encouragingly when Phineas hesitated.

He did as instructed, then leaped back, frightened, as there was a rushing sound and the water swirled in the bowl, then vanished down a rather large hole. "H-how?" he stammered. "And where did it go?"

His new guide explained in fairly simple terms how it worked.

"And the lights? How do you make light without flame?"

The guide took a deep breath. "That's a little harder to explain. Let's try it this way: You set a wild bull loose, and it's going to do a lot of damage, hurt and kill a lot of people, right? But geld it and break it to harness, and it works for you." When Bogg nodded his understanding, the man went on, "Well, what makes the lights is kind of like gelded and harnessed lightning."

Phineas laughed out loud at the mental image of "gelding" lightning.

"Yeah, I guess it is kind of funny, at that, but at least it gets the idea across."

"A passing strange place, this 'Voyager Headquarters' of yours," Bogg remarked, shaking his head.

"I suppose it is. Just take it slow; you'll get used to it. Some of what you see is likely to be pretty scary at first, but not a bit of it is witchcraft.

"Can you read?"

Taken off-guard by the sudden change in subject, he actually had to think, search his scrambled memory, before he could answer. "Yes."

"Good. I'll have Tim bring you some books tomorrow; they should help. Some of them are likely to be books written for children; it's not meant as an insult to your skill."

Phineas snorted. "I am certainly like a small child in this place."

The man's smile was obviously one of relief that he understood. "Any more questions?"

"Yes. Why can't I remember anything? I didn't hit my head _that_ hard, did I?"

"No, you didn't. Exactly what happened to your memory is a bit too complicated to explain; I don't really understand it myself. Let me just say that it's sort of a side effect of the way you were brought here and leave it at that. You'll recover completely eventually; exactly how long that will take, I can't tell you, because it varies so much from one person to the next. Anything else?"

"One more thing. That wounded man…how is he? Do you know?"

The man smiled. "Tim told me you'd probably want to know and found out for you. They got him patched up, and he's going to be fine, except, of course, that both legs are gone from about here down." He indicated a spot about six inches above his own knee. "Anything else before I go?"

"I have asked enough for one night. I will sleep on what I have learned so far."

"Okay---uh, that means 'all right.' My name's Carl Wolfe; I'm filling in for Tim Shelby for the night. If you need anything, just press this button." He laid a small cylinder on the night table. From one end protruded a red button; from the other, a cord ran to a panel on the wall above his bed. "More 'harnessed lightning,'" he explained.

Phineas nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly as he slid back into bed.

"You're welcome. Good night," Wolfe said, and was gone.

But sleep was long in returning. He could read. He had a dim knowledge of the fact that it was not a common skill where he had come from.

_Maps, charts, stars, numbers, figuring..._

Gone.

How had he gotten here, anyway? And _what the bloody hell was a Voyager?_

* * * * *

In the morning, he awoke from a sleep that had been peppered with odd dreams, most of them slipping out of his grasp even as he pondered them. All of them had had something to do with sailing, either directly or indirectly; to his mind, that fairly well confirmed that he had indeed been a sailor. One of the dreams had actually felt pleasant, for all that it now puzzled him. Little more than a boy, he had been gazing curiously at the charts; when the navigator had barked at him to get away from them, he had dared to inform the officer of an error in his figures. Such cheek probably would have landed him in _very _hot water had he actually done such a thing, but the memory of the dream had him smiling instead. Once again the image of maps and charts flashed before his mind's eye. No common sailor, then, for such men would have had little knowledge of those things. Perhaps he'd been a navigator himself, then, or at least apprenticed to one, and that dream had been a recollection of how he'd started on that path. Yes, that felt right, he decided. His teacher must have been a good master to his apprentice for the mere fragment of a memory to give him such a good feeling.

He was still pondering that when his door opened after a quick tap, and Dr. Fiore came in. "Good morning, Mr. Bogg. Still feeling keel-hauled?"

Phineas chuckled at having his own comparison quoted back to him, and he shrugged. "A little worse, actually," he admitted.

"That's par for the course," Fiore nodded; at his patient's blank look, he mentally berated himself and rephrased the statement in terms that would be more familiar to the newcomer. "I'll be discharging you today; your guide should be along shortly to take you to your assigned quarters in the Orientation section. I'll want to see you again in two weeks to check on that arm; in six weeks, you should be healed enough to have the cast removed." He lightly tapped the plaster to make sure Phineas understood what he meant. "Whatever you do, don't get it wet in the meantime. No baths, and definitely no showers; stick to sponging yourself down. Shelby will help you wrap the cast with something to keep it dry while you're washing. Any questions?"

"Yes...but not for myself."

"Ah, you want to ask about the man who lost his legs. As I told Shelby yesterday, they were able to save him, and he's recovering nicely; since he isn't my patient, that's really all I know."

* * * * *

His breakfast arrived shortly after the doctor had left; soon after he had finished eating, Tim Shelby arrived with his cleaned clothes and newly re-soled boots, which had also been oiled and buffed to a soft glow. "Ready to see more of this place?" he asked.

"Yes, but first I'd like to pay a visit to..."

"Your fellow recruit? We can do that—but not just yet. With the amount of care he needs right now, he probably won't be ready for visitors until later this morning. That'll give me time to introduce a few new concepts to you before you do see him. Need a hand there, or do you think you can manage?"

"I can handle most of it," Phineas replied, clumsily yanking his trousers into place one-handed. "I will need help with the belt and the boots, though."

Once that chore was done, Shelby led him out of the infirmary and through more of those richly paneled halls, eventually to quarters with the same elegant décor. Furniture the likes of which should have adorned a lord's mansion outfitted the rooms, a sitting room and a bedroom, clearly meant to accommodate two people. Both beds were neatly made; one closet held clothing in a wide array of styles, and he moved toward the empty one.

"Actually, that one's yours," Shelby informed him, indicating the full closet.

"Those aren't my clothes," Bogg protested. He pulled out a suit so effete that even the most foppish dandy he'd ever met would have hesitated to wear it. "I wouldn't be caught dead in this!"

Shelby grinned; they _always_ balked at that one. "Neither would most self-respecting men," he agreed, "except those in places where they were in fashion. In order to blend in, you'll have to learn to look natural in any outfit, no matter how outlandish you may think it."

He looked at the suit and visibly shuddered as he replaced it. "Spies?" he said tentatively. "These 'Voyagers' are spies?"

"I suppose you could say that, at least in a very broad sense," Shelby allowed. "We're kind of like moles1—you know the term?—only we're not out to infiltrate in the usual sense. It's all rather complicated, and I can't explain any further right now." He hid a grin as Phineas closed the closet door. If he thought that outfit was offensive, wait until he had to wear mid-sixteenth-century garb.2

They continued the brief tour of the little apartment, and Phineas grimaced as he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, then started opening the drawers in the washstand.3 "Isn't there a razor anywhere in here?" he asked.

"Do you really think trying to shave one-handed is a good idea?"

The comment deflated him instantly. Even the most skilled barber slipped occasionally with a straight razor. "No, I suppose not. I imagine the barber is going to be sick of seeing me by the time this comes off," he lifted his injured arm briefly.

* * * * *

After a visit to the barber for a much-needed shave, Bogg was guided through the rest of the Orientation area. It had its own dining hall, carefully designed so that no newcomer might accidentally see frighteningly unfamiliar technology in use. A whole section of corridors was devoted to schoolrooms, which, while vastly different from the ones Phineas had known, were still recognizable for what they were.

_A schoolmaster whose face was startlingly similar to his own adult features..._

Gone.

The Orientation department, while quite large, did have its boundaries; certain corridors ended at double doors, which were marked with the names of other departments. Some of those names were familiar, while others were utterly alien to him. One was identified only by the letters "TE."

"Don't even bother to ask," Shelby grinned, watching his charge's puzzlement grow. "If I told you what it stood for, it wouldn't make any sense."

"It's another department, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, and strictly off-limits to anyone who doesn't work there. In fact, that door is locked."

"What about those others we passed?"

"They're not, but don't go trying them. Right now, you're not allowed out of Orientation unescorted. No, you're not a prisoner; it's for your own peace of mind. The whole purpose of Orientation is to acclimate you slowly to the things we use and the way we do things. I heard about the way you reacted to the shower last night," he added pointedly; Bogg immediately understood and decided he didn't _want_ to go exploring alone.

"Speaking of getting you used to things," Shelby went on, "there's a concept I need to introduce you to before I take you to see your fellow recruit."

"I'm sorry I've been so insistent about it," Phineas began.

"No need to apologize," Shelby cut him off reassueingly. "I would've been surprised if you hadn't been."

"Then perhaps you can explain it to me; this is not like me. He's a stranger. The news that he would live should have been enough; instead, I feel driven somehow."

"You both got here at the same time; it's not at all unusual for recruits in such a situation to feel responsible for each other,4 especially if one is injured. If he wasn't wounded himself, he'd be bending my ear to let him check up on you."

* * * * *

Shelby offered to wait at the front desk as the nurse escorted Phineas to one of the rooms; he couldn't help but grin at the way his charge artfully positioned himself half a step behind her to watch her walk. He couldn't really blame the man; not only was the nurse attractive, but, for someone accustomed to the garb of the seventeenth century, the sight of a woman in slacks must be fascinating indeed.

At first Phineas felt outrage boiling up inside himself at the sight of the nurse. What kind of people were these Voyagers, that their women had to work in their underclothes?!5 Then he reconsidered at the thought of some of the clothes he'd just seen in his own closet. Perhaps there was a place where such garb was normal for women, though he couldn't see any lady he'd ever met willingly displaying herself in such a fashion. Not even a doxy would wear anything so outrageous in public. But if this girl was going to be so bold, who was he to argue, he decided and dropped back a little to enjoy the view.

Will Parker stared morosely at the far end of the bed, where the blanket lay flat across the mattress, its smooth expanse unmounded by underlying feet. Sometimes he could still feel them, phantom sensations in limbs that were no longer there. Right now, however, the only thing he felt was the distant ache of the stumps, the pain of the wounds dulled by analgesics.

He couldn't remember how it had happened. In fact, he couldn't remember much of anything; it had taken him most of the previous night just to recall his name. They said that was probably due as much to the trauma that had destroyed his legs as to the way he'd been brought here—wherever "here" was. All he knew for certain was that he was in the infirmary of someplace called "Voyager Headquarters," which told him absolutely nothing about his actual location. The name was somehow familiar, though, inexplicably evoking a feeling of triumph.

His musings were interrupted by a perfunctory knock at the door, which then opened to admit a nurse. "You have a visitor," she announced.

"Somebody here knows me?" he asked.

"Not exactly. He's another recruit like you; he saw your arrival and wanted to meet you."

"I can imagine," Will growled. "Go ahead and let him in."

The nurse stepped aside, and Phineas entered the room to see a dark-haired man a little older than himself, a tube running into his arm from a clear bag of some unknown material, containing a clear, colorless liquid—the "intravenous fluids" Shelby had told him about on the way over.

The scowl the man was wearing did not belong there, looking decidedly out of place on a face that appeared to be more accustomed to laughter; well-muscled arms indicated a man who was used to work or action, or both. No wonder he was bitter.

Phineas opened his mouth to offer a greeting, but before he could get the words out, the man snarled, "Come to see the crip, huh?" He threw back the blankets, exposing the bandaged stumps. "There you go; gawk away."

He certainly wasn't about to let this fellow wallow in self-pity; he reached out and pulled the blankets back into place with an offhanded, "Belay that shit."

The bitterness was replaced by curiosity. "You a Navy man?" Then a grin twitched at one corner of his mouth, and he added, "Or is this International Talk Like a Pirate Day?6 Must be; it's _'way _the hell too early for Hallowe'en."

Phineas blinked. "International...what?"

"Talk Like a Pirate Day," Will repeated. "You know, that whole craze Disney started with the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ trilogy."7

"Who's Disney?"

The man scrutinized him closely then, his eyes narrowing. "Have we met?" he asked. "I could swear I've seen you before."

"I don't think so, but my memory leaves much to be desired right now."

"You too, huh? Tell me something: Do you remember how you got here?"

He shrugged. "I just woke up in this little room, soaking wet, with a broken arm."

"Was the room blue?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so that much was real. I was only semi-conscious," he added by way of explanation.

"You _were_ in pretty bad shape." His eyes dancing mischievously, Bogg added, "In fact, they're probably still cleaning your blood off the walls."

The man blinked, then let out a short bark of laughter. "I like that!" he grinned. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?" He stuck out a hand. "Will Parker."

"Phineas Bogg," came the reply.

Will snorted more laughter. _"Phineas?" _he repeated incredulously. "What the hell kind of a name is that?"

"Mine," the name's owner shot back defiantly.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Peace!" Will protested, still grinning as he held up his hands placatingly.

Now _that_ was how he _should_ look, Bogg confirmed his own earlier assessment. "Are you all right?" he asked as Will went very quiet for a moment.

_An older man with dark hair, smoking a cigar and wearing clothes in garish color combinations..._

_ A Power-Point presentation..._

Two flashes of memory, gone so quickly he wasn't able to grasp them. Will shook his head as if to clear it. "Yeah. I think I just remembered something, but I can't really pin it down. Has anyone told you exactly what a Voyager is yet?"

"No, and it's probably a good thing. I've already seen more than any man should, and it's almost enough to make me think they're a coven of witches—though they're at great pains to assure me that none of it is witchcraft."

"Witchcraft?" It was Will's turn to be puzzled. "What have you seen?"

"Lights with no flame, a knob that brings rain indoors...even a chamber pot that seems to swallow!"

Will burst out laughing again, this time in paroxysms that left him breathless. "Oh, my God, that is just plain _gross!"_

"'Gross'?" Phineas repeated. "No, there was only one."

That comment earned him a strange look. "No; I mean...nasty, disgusting," he explained. "What backwater did _you_ come from?"

"I wish I knew. My guide certainly seemed familiar enough with these things, which only makes sense, since he lives here, but you seem to know them, too."

"Of course I do. Everybody has electric lights, showers, and flush toilets."

"Flush...grooming?" Phineas rendered the nonsensical phrase.

After staring at him oddly for an instant, Will said, "No. 'Toilet' _used to _mean 'grooming,' but now it just refers to that 'swallowing chamber pot' of yours."

That elicited a groan. "Why do I get the feeling you're never going to let there be an end of that?"

"Because I'm not," Will informed him with a wicked grin, then suddenly began laughing uncontrollably again. "A _swallowing chamber pot!" _he gasped. "Oh, _God,_ what a picture!" Then, bringing his hilarity under control once more, he asked, "Okay, seriously, why did you want to meet me?"

Phineas shrugged. "They told me you were going to be okay, but I wanted to see for myself."

"So you didn't come here to throw a pity-party."

His meaning was clear enough, if worded strangely, and Phineas responded, "I'm not one to pity anyone. Like as not, you'll hate the sight of me long before you've learned to walk on pegs."

"Oh, I don't know about that. You'll have to push me pretty hard to get beyond what I do to myself," Will shot back.

His eyes lighting with the challenge, Phineas replied, "You're on."

Will grinned back at him, but his mind was racing. The man was a puzzle if ever he'd seen one. He supposed there might be one or two remote areas of the world into which modern conveniences still hadn't found their way, but that did not entirely explain his archaic speech patterns. It was as if he'd stepped through some kind of time warp.

"_'Practical Time Travel' wasn't exactly a big hit in the scientific community..." _Will pinched the bridge of his nose. A nauseating wave of vertigo washed over him, and memory returned in a rush.

"Are you all right?" Bogg asked, concerned, as Will's color took on a greenish tinge.

Belying the impending sickness suggested by his suddenly pasty complexion, his dark eyes were alight with excitement, and he asked, "Do you happen to know the year?"

Phineas had to think about that for a minute. "I'm not really sure," he said slowly. "I think it was sixteen-eighty-something..."

"Hot damn!" Will whooped jubilantly. "It worked! _They made it!"_

Looking quizzically at him, Phineas demanded, "What are you talking about?"

Will seemed to deflate. "I can't tell you; not right now. Trust me, Phinn: Until they update your education, it'll only be gibberish. Hell, you don't even know what an atom is, do you?"

"An Adam?" he repeated, mystified.8

"Never mind; you'll learn."

"Am I to understand you've recovered your memory?"

"Most of it. I can tell you I was a Marine, and that this," he indicated his foreshortened legs, "was a combat injury, but I couldn't tell you exactly what happened. That part may never come back."

"Somehow you know what these Voyagers are, don't you?" Phineas asked suspiciously.

Will's smile made him look positively _content_. "This place is my past," he said cryptically, "and my future."

Try as he might, Phineas could get nothing more out of him.

1 The word, in its current sense as a deep-cover agent, has been around since 1626.

2 In the 1540s, codpieces were padded and decorated in a fashion that would be considered obscene by later standards.

3 That's how he would have thought of a bathroom vanity, after all.

4 It's the same phenomenon that accounts for the cohesiveness of military units in boot camp. You're all "strangers in a strange land," which is enough to bind people together who normally wouldn't get along at all.

5 Scrub pants do bear a startling resemblance to the women's underwear of earlier times.

6 This is a real "holiday," observed on September 19.

7 The holiday actually predates the first movie by three years, as it was established in 1995.

8 Actually, the word, and a very rudimentary concept of its meaning, has been around since a few centuries BC, but in the 17th century, knowledge of it was mostly limited to alchemists, so Bogg certainly would never have heard of it.


End file.
